Black Cat Weekly #63

By Sharyn Kolberg, Sydney J. Bounds, Joseph S. Walker and 6 more

   Welcome to Black Cat Weekly. It’s our 63rd issue, and we’re just getting into the Thanksgiving holiday spirit. Our cover this time features a cat-and-turkey dance, but we can guarantee no turkeys among the stories! This time, Michael Bracken has an original crime story by Sharyn Kolberg on tap, and Barb Goffman has acquired a great Joseph S. Walker mystery. We also have classics by “Sapper” (British author H.C. McNeile), a Johnny Liddell detective tale by Frank Kane, and as always, a solve-it-yourself mystery by Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet).
   On the science fiction and fantasy side, we have another original story by Sydney J. Bounds featuring his wizard-detective, in “Royal Mage,” plus stories by Frank Belknap Long, Clifford D. Simak, and Joseph Gilbert. Rounding out the issue is a novel by Murray Leinster, Men Into Space, based on the classic television series.
   Here’s the complete lineup:
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
   “Gone By Greyhound,” by Sharyn Kolberg [Michael Bracken Presents short story]   “The Locked Gymnasium Mystery,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
   “The Last Man in Lafarge,” by Joseph S. Walker [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
   “The Green Death,” by “Sapper" [short story]
   “The Icepick Artists,” by Frank Kane [novella]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
   “Atomic Station,”by Frank Belknap Long [short story]   “Royal Mage,” by Sydney J. Bounds [short story]
   “The Call from Beyond,” by Clifford D. Simak [short story]
   “The Eternal Quest,” by Joseph Gilbert [short story]
   Men Into Space, by Murray Leinster [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Nov 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667660479

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

GONE BY GREYHOUND, by Sharyn Kolberg

THE LOCKED GYMNASIUM MYSTERY, by Hal Charles

THE LAST MAN IN LAFARGE, by Joseph S. Walker

THE GREEN DEATH, by Sapper

INTRODUCTION

PART I

PART II

THE ICEPICK ARTISTS, by Frank Kane

ATOMIC STATION, by Frank Belknap Long

ROYAL MAGE, by Sydney J. Bounds

THE CALL FROM BEYOND, by Clifford D. Simak

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

THE ETERNAL QUEST, by Joseph Gilbert

MEN INTO SPACE, by Murray Leinster

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Gone By Greyhound is copyright © 2022 by Sharyn Kolberg and appears here for the first time.

The Locked Gymnasium Mystery is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Last Man In Lafarge is copyright © 2021 by Joseph S. Walker. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July/Aug 2021. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Green Death, by Sapper, was originally published in The Strand Magazine, August 1920.

The Icepick Artists, by Frank Kane originally published in Manhunt, December 1953.

Atomic Station is copyright © 1946, renewed 1974 by Frank Belknap Long. Originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, Winter 1946. Reprinted with the kind permission and assistance of Lily Doty, Mansfield M. Doty, and the family of Frank Belknap Long.

Royal Mage by Sydney J. Bounds is copyright © 2022 by the Estate of Sydney J. Bounds and appears here for the first time. Published by permission of the Cosmos Literary Agency.

The Call from Beyond by Clifford D. Simak was originally published in Super Science Stories, May 1950.

The Eternal Quest, by Joseph Gilbert, was originally published in Astonishing Stories, October 1942.

Men Into Space, by Murray Leinster, was originally published in 1960.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

It’s our 63rd issue, and we’re just getting into the Thanksgiving holiday spirit. Our cover this time features a cat-and-turkey dance, but we can guarantee no turkeys among the stories! This time, Michael Bracken has an original crime story by Sharyn Kolberg on tap, and Barb Goffman has acquired a great Joseph S. Walker mystery. We also have classics by Sapper (British author H.C. McNeile), a Johnny Liddell detective tale by Frank Kane, and as always, a solve-it-yourself mystery by Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet).

On the science fiction and fantasy side, we have another original story by Sydney J. Bounds featuring his wizard-detective, in Royal Mage, plus stories by Frank Belknap Long, Clifford D. Simak, and Joseph Gilbert. Rounding out the issue is a novel by Murray Leinster, Men Into Space, based on the classic television series.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Gone By Greyhound, by Sharyn Kolberg [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Locked Gymnasium Mystery, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

The Last Man in Lafarge, by Joseph S. Walker [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Green Death, by Sapper [short story]

The Icepick Artists, by Frank Kane [novella]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Atomic Station,by Frank Belknap Long [short story]

Royal Mage, by Sydney J. Bounds [short story]

The Call from Beyond, by Clifford D. Simak [short story]

The Eternal Quest, by Joseph Gilbert [short story]

Men Into Space, by Murray Leinster [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

GONE BY GREYHOUND,

by Sharyn Kolberg

Janet and me both got pregnant on the same day. I also killed somebody, but that came later.

None of this would have happened if me and my BFF Janet hadn’t gone into the bar that night. If we’d never met Lester or if I hadn’t slept with his cousin Fidel a day later. Imagine naming a kid Fidel. Especially in Miami.

Fidel and me had a complicated relationship. I’d have to unspool it in my own mind when I had a minute. Now, I was in a race against time. Against logic. Against Lester. I had to disappear before Lester caught up with my sorry self. Like I told Janet, all I could think of was this: Get ready. Get set. Get gone.

I had to figure out the most practical mode of transportation. Airplane: out of the question. Too scary, too expensive. Train: probably not. Limited destinations, too expensive. Bus: A definite possibility, although sometimes uncomfortable, and often stinky. Most important, Lester—who was just as afraid of germs as he was of bullets—was not likely to hop on a slow-riding sardine can and sit shoulder-to-shoulder with so many carriers.

Even so, I knew from the get-go Lester would be on our scent. He and his cousin had been close like me and Janet, and he couldn’t just let us get away with it. I was sure he’d find us sooner or later. I was hoping it would be later.

It took us two weeks, spent looking over our shoulders, for Janet and me to get ourselves and our finances together enough to disappear. I packed a suitcase, unpacked it, and stuffed everything in a backpack, which would allow me to run if I needed to. I suggested Janet do the same. I found a guy who made us new IDs. I didn’t look Mexican, but I guess I was now. Janet was some kind of Polish or something neither one of us could pronounce. Janet emptied most of her bank account, leaving a hundred bucks intact in case she ever decided to come back and needed emergency funds. I would have done the same, but I didn’t have a bank account or a hundred bucks.

* * * *

Janet had gotten the sleek and lean genes from her mom, who loved her drugs more than she loved her kids, but Janet adored her anyway. Janet rose to almost six feet without even standing on her tippy toes, while I lingered just below 5’4". There wasn’t anything that could be done about each other’s longitudinal situation, so we didn’t let it get in the way of our friendship. She had my back and I had hers, uneven as they were. Which is why Janet had decided to go with me.

At the station, I pointed to a Greyhound with a sign for Detroit. That one’s ours, I said.

Do we have to go to Detroit? Janet asked. How about Orlando?

Nope.

Vegas?

Too much of a gamble.

Ha ha ha. Seattle?

Detroit. Or Boise. Your choice.

Some choice—Dump or Dumper. Okay, Detroit.

* * * *

The image of the greyhound on the side of the bus reminded me of Getouttahere, the mutt I had to leave behind with my next-door neighbor. Getty was sleek and lean, the way I was in my imagination. The way most people wanted to be. Except Fidel. He didn’t care that he had a dad-bod paunch up front and a forest of hair growing on his back. Neither did I.

Janet took a seat next to the window, which left me on the aisle. I thought it should have been the other way around so she could have stretched her long, long legs. But Janet does what Janet wants to do.

I miss Lester, she said, five minutes after we’d boarded the dirty dog.

I wondered what she missed most about him—his yellow teeth or the dyed black hair he combed over his fast-growing bald spot. I didn’t want to get her riled, so I kept my big mouth shut.

Don’t you miss Fidel?

"I wish I had missed Fidel," I said, and we both laughed even though there was nothing funny about it.

* * * *

The trip was long and uncomfortable. Almost two days’ worth of travel, with lots of stops at bus stations in the least attractive part of every town. Janet and I were both nauseous the whole way, scarfing down saltines because they absorb gastric acid, according to the experts at Google. We craved those crackers like junkies crave smack. We thought it was an amazing coincidence that both of us were carsick the whole ride.

Some of the stops were barely long enough for us to get off, breathe in bus fumes, and heave a few times. Both Janet and me kept our eyes peeled for Lester or any other shady-looking characters who might be boarding. Best for us to be on our guard. Could be that Lester had connections we didn’t know about. We didn’t have a plan if a shady character did climb on; we didn’t have any weapons on us, unless you counted projectile vomiting.

A couple of stops were long enough for us to shop for more saltines. We almost decided to park ourselves permanently in Defiance, Ohio, just because of its name, but we saw a guy in a fancy silver hairpiece while we were buying gum at a 7-Eleven and we thought it might be Lester in disguise. Janet hid herself between the cold drink case and the hot dog cooker and I ran out the front door to distract the guy, but he was busy counting out cash for his Flamin’ Hot Doritos and didn’t pay us any attention. If he was Lester, he was playing it cool.

It wasn’t him.

* * * *

Are we there yet? asked Janet for the ninety-ninth time, like a seven-year-old in a back seat. She thought she was funny. She was working my last nerve; I wanted to slap her.

Depends on your definition of ‘there.’

I guess I was working her nerves, too. She gave me the side eye, ate another cracker, and fell asleep. I woke her up at the next stop because a total creepoid came on board and sat in the row in front of us. He smiled at us and showed his yellow teeth. He was wearing a hat that came way down on his forehead and his nose was crooked like Lester’s.

I was shaking like a maraca, but Janet took my hand and whispered in my ear, It isn’t him.

* * * *

We were more than halfway to the Motor City when Janet finally asked the question I knew had been crawling around her mouth since the gun went off.

What was it like to kill a guy?

That was a hard one to answer. At the time, it felt like I had no choice. Maybe I was a little jealous, even though me and Janet were tired of these guys. We called them Rude and Crude behind their backs, and decided we’d move on to Bigger and Better as soon as we found them. Fidel and Lester and me and Janet were in Fidel’s so-called apartment in Miami and, even with both me and Lester right there, Fidel kept looking at Janet like she was prime pickin’s. Lester went out to replenish the alcohol. He looked at Fidel on his way out, said he’d be back in fifteen, and told him to leave us both alone. I didn’t like his tone. Neither did Janet.

Fidel kept trying to smooth-talk Janet. She kept telling him to lay off and go bother me. She was joking. Fidel took her serious. Too serious. He was bothering me more than I wanted. The situation was getting tense, to say the least. Janet told him to leave me be, but he wouldn’t listen. When he turned back to Janet and pushed her down on the lump-filled queen size, I pulled out my gun and blew a hole in his chest. His blood was dripping onto the wall-to-wall, and I knew I’d cleared up one situation only to get us into a worse one.

What was it like to kill a guy? Janet was waiting for an answer. It felt like eating a pickle, I said.

Huh? You mean like a sour pickle?

Like a super sour pickle, so sour it hurts your teeth straight up to your brain. But at the same time, it’s like the best thing you ever ate. Capiche?

Capiche.

A couple of minutes went by until Janet spoke again. I thought you hated sour pickles.

Not anymore.

* * * *

A couple of hours from Detroit, a man with a smudgy black dye-job got on the bus. He looked straight at us and smiled, not a friendly smile, either. His teeth were yellow as hell. I elbowed Janet, who was deep into a sudoku book. She glanced at the man and her face went white. Just sitting next to her, I could feel her heart racing like the hound on the side of the bus. My beater was keeping the same pace. We looked at each other and simultaneously whispered, It’s him.

The bus was crowded. Almost all the seats were taken. There were none near us. Lester waited impatiently for the people in front of him to find spots. He kept coming closer. Janet was trying to hide her face behind her puzzle book, even though she knew he’d seen us. We were basically riding in a coffin, or at least on our way to one. I didn’t think Lester would try anything in the damn bus. Reckless he might be, but stupid he wasn’t.

He walked down the aisle and stopped right beside me.

Hello, Dollface, he said, looking at Janet. Like he was some kind of gangster from the 40s. Janet blushed, and I could tell she was having those sour pickle feelings—she was shaking in her boots, but she was turned on at the same time.

Please find a seat, sir, suddenly came through the loudspeaker, rattling my bones. We can’t leave until all passengers are seated.

Lester calmly walked to the back and took the only seat left. Janet and I had two hours to figure how to get out of this situation. My mind was a freaking blank. Janet let out a little yelp and I thought she had come up with a plan.

Look, she said. I finished the sudoku! Then she threw up.

* * * *

Janet apologized to the passengers around us. A lady across the aisle offered us a bunch of Kleenex and remarked on how many crackers we’d been eating and how it reminded her of when she was pregnant and had spent nine months upchucking.

Reality hit us both at the same time. It wasn’t the bus making us nauseous. Rude and Crude had left us with Oopsy and Boopsy. Janet and I looked at each other and laughed hysterically, which turned into quiet waterworks on both our parts.

I could feel Lester tracking our sobs.

* * * *

Janet wiped her tears and turned her face to mine. Since Lester and Fidel were cousins, does that mean Oopsy and Boopsy will be cousins too?

Maybe like twice removed.

What does that mean?

I have no idea.

So, is this a good thing for us?

It’s a good thing.

We needed a distraction from Lester. We started fantasizing about baby names, debating about whether we wanted boys or girls, and almost forgetting about Lester in the back row. Janet suggested I should name my baby Fidel and I lost it. I stuffed about ten crackers in my mouth and tried to stuff even more in hers. That made us both giggle, then Janet got quiet. I’m scared, she said.

Of Lester?

No. Of this, she said, rubbing her tummy. I knew just what she was talking about.

What do we do now? Janet asked a little later.

We buy stock in saltines, I said.

* * * *

I didn’t know about Janet, but I could feel Lester ruminating about what he was gonna do to us. And how he was gonna do it. Then I realized I had to pee really bad. This far into the trip, the bathroom was probably pretty gross, and in order to get to it, I’d have to pass Lester. Unfortunately, I couldn’t wait.

I walked as quickly as I could toward the rear of the bus, clinging to the seatbacks all the way. The bus hit a bumpy patch of highway and I lurched forward. I almost landed in some guy’s lap, a row in front of Lester. The guy smiled and I thought maybe I could ask him for help, but what could he do? What could anybody do?

The next row was Lester’s. He was leaning back against the headrest; his eyes were slits, his mouth hanging open. I thought he was asleep until he reached out and grabbed my wrist. I screeched. The guy from the row in front turned around, but he must have thought Lester was helping me get steady, just like he had done. He went back to the game on his phone.

Lester opened his eyes. Where do you think you’re going?

"Where do you think I’m going?"

Huh?

It wasn’t that hard to get Lester confused. He let go of my arm and reached into his pocket. I didn’t want to know what was in there.

It was a Mentos mint candy. He asked if I wanted one. I almost took one, to bring back to Janet, because I knew she would scarf it down. I declined; I hate mint. He let go of my wrist and said, See you on the way back? as if I had a choice of which way to go.

The bathroom was just as I’d pictured it, overflowing waste bin and all. Super smelly. My turn to upchuck.

* * * *

When I crept by Lester, he was cleaning his nails with a tiny metal file. He didn’t pay me any attention. That made me more nervous than ever. I wished I had a knife. I’d stab him in the heart and leave it to Greyhound personnel to clean up the mess. But I didn’t have a knife, and when a wave of nausea hit me again, I realized I didn’t want my baby to have a serial killer mama. Once was a fluke—twice would be the beginning of a habit. Back at my row, I told Janet to grab her backpack from under the seat, hold it tight and get ready to bolt. She asked, Where we gonna go? and I had no answer. We were heading into Toledo, and I didn’t have a clue.

I could see Lester stirring in his seat. Six or seven people from the rows between us were starting to stand to pull down their luggage from the overhead rack. Lester stood too, but he couldn’t push past them. The bus pulled into a regular bus stop on the side of the road, not a station manned by Greyhound workers. What kind of a dinky town was Toledo, anyways?

Another bus pulled in behind us. I elbowed Janet and we bolted, practically mowing down the people in front of us, but we managed to get out while Lester was still trapped inside. We ran over to the second Greyhound and yelled at the driver to let us in and close the door. She waited for a few other passengers, but we screamed at her that there was a pervert following us and she needed to pull out now. I guess she believed us, because she took one look at Lester getting off bus number one, shut the door and pulled right out. Lester was literally left in the dust. We were on our way to Cleveland.

The driver asked if we’d called the police. We told her yes, even though, of course, it was no. That would be like calling the cops on ourselves. The driver was super nice and told us we could buy our tickets from her, no problem. She only hoped we’d left that weirdo far enough behind. Janet and me hoped so, too.

I guess Cleveland is classier than Toledo, because it had a regular bus station with almost-clean linoleum floors and a big Welcome to Cleveland sign, a restaurant and even a gift shop. We didn’t stop to buy gifts or snacks or even use the restroom; we ran out the door as quick as we could, trailing saltines behind us.

We grabbed a cab and asked the driver to take us to a cheap hotel. We were using up Janet’s savings a lot quicker than we’d planned, but we had to stay somewhere. One night, then we’d figure something out. We pulled up to a Red Roof Inn near the airport. Janet paid the driver and I’d barely slammed the door behind me when a black SUV with an Uber sticker pulled in behind us. Lester had outsmarted us after all. He’d seen the sign for Cleveland on our bus, called an Uber, and followed us there.

Well, ladies, he said in that smarmy way he had, looks like it’s not as easy as you thought to get rid of ol’ Lester. I’m disappointed in you both. Especially, you, Janet.

She blushed again, keeping her eyes on the ground. Somehow, under the bright lights of the Red Roof marquee, Lester didn’t seem so scary. And his teeth didn’t seem so yellow. His dye job was still kind of smudgy, but nobody’s perfect.

He took Janet’s arm—gently this time—and started talking. I followed you all the way here to tell you not to worry about me following you. You two did me a favor. Fidel was no good. Not to be trusted. And cheap, to boot. I’m glad to be rid of him.

I don’t know why Lester didn’t tell us his story before we left Miami or while we were on the bus, but Lester had his mysterious ways. I hoped he was telling us the truth, especially to Janet. Janet does what Janet wants to do, and right now she wanted to do Lester.

I would have been glad to see the last of Lester, but Janet’s face was working on a smile, and she was looking at Lester like he was a whole pack of Mentos. When he suggested we all spend the night under the Red Roof, she agreed posthaste. I said I’d get a room of my own, thank you. Janet grabbed Lester’s hand. Come on inside, she said. I’ve got a surprise for you.

* * * *

All I could do was hope that everything would turn out all right for me, Janet, Lester and the unborns. Unfortunately, the only thing you can count on about hope is that, more often than not, it will let you down. Maybe this time would be different. I didn’t think so, but you never know.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sharyn Kolberg is a ghostwriter of more than 20 non-fiction best-sellers and is now moving into fiction. Her short stories have appeared in Mystery Weekly Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Literal Latte, Mensa Bulletin Fiction Issue and Akashic Books Mondays are Murder. She has just completed her first mystery novel and is working on her second.

THE LOCKED GYMNASIUM MYSTERY,

by Hal Charles

"The White Wolf is missing, came the piercing cry from the center of the gymnasium, and it’s White Wolf #1."

About to exit the first annual Clement County ComicCon, State Police Detective Kelly Stonebreaker headed back to the middle of the high school gymnasium, where the cries for help had originated. She clutched even tighter her prize purchase, a thick and clear-bagged early issue of Wonder Woman that the dealer had just let her have cheaply.

Immediately a red light atop one of the gym’s baskets began to whir, and a voice blared over the loud speaker, We are in Defcon 1. Until the missing comic book is located, nobody will be permitted to leave CCC I.

The middle section of the ComicCon, Stonebreaker knew, contained the six major dealers’ tables, and at one she found a distraught, bow-tied man whose name tag identified him as T. Broaddus. Badging him, she asked, What happened?

"I was showing The White Wolf #1 to a guy, who spotted it behind me and asked for a closer look, said Broaddus, gesturing at the display rack of bagged comics to the rear of his table. But this blonde thrust another of my comics in front of me and said she had to have it before someone else purchased it. After I completed the transaction, I looked around for about half an hour, but couldn’t find The White Wolf."

"And The White Wolf is worth a lot?" questioned the detective.

First, number one is an origin of the hero issue, and they’re always worth more. Second, the writer and artist are local, and three there were very few issues published, said Broaddus.

So it’s unique and rare, Kelly summarized.

But with at least a hundred people in this gym, the thief is going to be difficult, lamented Broaddus, "and I was too busy to get a good look at anyone around my table about the time The White Wolf must have been taken."

When all the patrons had been thoroughly searched and allowed to leave, the prized comic had not been found. The only remaining people in the gym were those at the inner six tables, local Deputy Rick Peters, and Kelly Stonebreaker. The detective had helped the deputy search the premises with no luck.

Well, said a frustrated Deputy Peters, by the process of elimination, one of these dealers must be guilty.

The two of them searched all the remaining inventory belonging to the dealers and still could not find the missing comic. Even though Broaddus had reported the crime, they still checked his merchandise just to be certain.

Ben and Gillian Flynn, the husband and wife team who had sold Kelly her precious Wonder Woman comic, were likewise cleared of possessing the missing comic. The remaining four dealer tables—all belonging to out-of-staters in a hurry to leave—were subjected to a vigorous checking. Deputy Peters even examined the tubular legs of the tables owned by Ed Chambers and Bill Sweetin to make certain The White Wolf had not been rolled up and inserted into the hollow metal. Kelly personally searched the two female dealers, Elaine Wayne and Akita Calimoro, finding nothing.

I’m stumped, Kelly Stonebreaker admitted.

Wasn’t it Sherlock Holmes who said, `When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’? commented Deputy Peters.

That’s it! said Detective Stonebreaker, clutching her bagged prize. As improbable as it may sound, the only two people who could be the thief are you and me, and I’m pretty sure it’s not you.

Q: Why does Stonebreaker suspect herself, and how could she be the thief?

SOLUTION

Stonebreaker unsnapped her plastic bag and removed her Wonder Woman comic. In its middle, she found tucked The White Wolf #1. Broaddus had described being flummoxed by a man asking to see the comic, then a woman wanting to buy another magazine. Ben and Gillian were the only man-woman team of dealers, and Broaddus recognized both. After stealing the rare comic, the two panicked at being discovered and hid the prize in the comic they sold to Kelly cheaply and quickly. They had planned to come by the address on the detective’s check, presumably to rectify their mistake and give Kelly the comic she had really wanted, but the detective arrested them before they could leave the gymnasium.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

THE LAST MAN IN LAFARGE,

by Joseph S. Walker

I walked into the High Street Tap at a little after three in the afternoon. Frank Alton had my drink ready: a large plastic cup, packed to the brim with crushed ice and Dr. Pepper, a cherry nestled into the top of the ice. He put it on a napkin in front of me as I sat down. Anything happening, Sheriff Wright? he asked.

I’d given up telling the man he can call me Cal. Not a thing, Frank. I tipped the cup back, let some of the ice rattle into my mouth along with the sweet, cold drink. As usual at this time of day, the dim room was almost empty. Reggie Crowe was sitting at a table by the side wall, drinking by himself, his right sleeve hanging empty after a decades-ago disagreement with an angry steer. I gave him a nod in the mirror, but he ignored me.

Reggie’s still angry that you yanked his license, Frank said.

Reggie came into this world angry, I said. Figure he’ll leave that way. I took another long drink and asked the question I’d asked at least a hundred times before. What brought you to Lafarge, Frank?

I’m glad you asked, Sheriff. Frank polished the inside of a glass with a rag, cocking his hip against the bar. He was a big man, with a torso like a beer keg, long muscular arms, and a shaved head tinted red by the neon sign behind him. I used to be the captain of the Staten Island ferry, he said. One day I got sick of it, so I locked the doors and took a boatload of pissed-off commuters under the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge into the open sea. Scuttled her off Red Hook. I’m number three on the Coast Guard’s list of most wanted men. He set the glass down gently on the bar, near my elbow.

Lucy Tannen came out of the back room and began stacking bread. The Tap keeps a few shelves of necessities in the back of the barroom for folks who don’t feel like driving two hours for diapers or aspirin. Lucy’s father owned the place, though he hadn’t set eyes on it in years. His was the only ranch in Stagg County where wells pumped oil, not dust. After his wife drank her way into an early grave a decade ago, Wayne Tannen had taken his two kids to Dallas. Lucy came back to Lafarge a year ago by herself. She wouldn’t say why, but folks around here looked at the tattoos twining around her arms and her shapely legs, the holes stretching her earlobes to the size of quarters, and the curves accentuated by her T-shirts, and figured she ran wild in the big city and Wayne spanked her ass